Work Text:
Ford had just walked into the house when his Ma called out that dinner was done. He wrinkled his nose at the smell drifting through the empty space—heavy, greasy, and warm in a way that turned his stomach.
He dropped his bag in his room and was just setting his books on the desk when Stanley barreled in through the bedroom door, ruffling Ford’s hair on his way to the desk chair, before settling with a theatrical thump.
“Gonna join us for dinner? Or are you planning to eat your math homework?”
Ford rolled his eyes, catching Stanley swiping one of his pencils and attempting to balance it on his nose. Without missing a beat, Ford unpacked his books and took out his already completed homework. He has an Evening Schedule to attend to.
He snatched the pencil back, earning himself a Level 3 Pout. Stanley even added the big eyes for dramatic effect. Ford rolled his eyes again and opened his mouth to respond—only for their mother’s voice to cut in.
“Are you boys planning to absorb nutrients from the air, or are you going to join your father and me at the table?”
Stanley jumped up, kissed her on the cheek in passing, and headed toward the dining room like nothing was wrong.
~~~~~
Caryn watched her middle son, and something in her chest ached. He had always been focused, but lately he'd been pulling away more and more. If it were just her, she wouldn’t worry—but even Stanley had noticed. And when Stanley notices something, it’s already been going on for a while.
She glanced down the hall toward her husband—probably seconds from making a fuss about the dinner being late—then back to Ford, who stood there with that distant, unreadable look in his eye. He hadn’t eaten with them in days. She kept telling herself it was the studying, but deep down, she knew better.
She reached out and gently cupped his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He didn’t resist, just folded under the contact.
“Make sure you eat something later,” she said, tilting his chin until his eyes met hers. “Alright?”
Ford didn’t know when lying had gotten so easy. But he looked his mom in the eyes and nodded.
“After two more subjects,” he promised.
And like always, she let him go.
Time Skip- Sea Grunkles
The first thing that tipped Stanley off was the food.
Now, he’d never been one for obsessive tracking—but even with his generous snack-to-meal ratio, the numbers didn’t add up.
He squinted into the pantry. Still stocked. More than it should’ve been. He shoved the thought aside with a shrug.
They were pirates, sort of. Sometimes they missed meals. No big deal. The important thing was they had enough fuel to kick ass when it counted.
Grabbing a can of Pringles from their last port, Stan popped the lid and crunched his way toward the navigation room.
Walking through the hallways, his eyes scanned the limited space back and forth. Occasionally tipping the container to grab another handful of chips to dump in his mouth, he couldn't figure out what was bothering him about the amount of food they had.
He arrived at the naval room and took in the chaos. Maps. Systems. Notes scribbled by Ford’s weird hillbilly scientist friend. He zeroed in on the cluttered table and pounced.
“Ah-ha. Paper.”
Dragging a chair over, Stan began to work. He mapped out their food stock: ship-safe meals, dried goods, snacks, that weird frozen meat Ford preserved with some sort of time machine. Then he compared it against the receipts Ford said he saves religiously.
He scratched his head, chewing his lip. He marked off what he had eaten. Then he tried estimating Ford’s share.
…
Something was off. Way off.
Unless Ford had a secret stash hidden somewhere, he wasn’t really eating outside of their shared dinners. And even then… not much.
Stan stared at the paper. He tossed it. Grabbed another. Recalculated.
Same answer.
He could ask Ford directly—or snoop. One was faster. Less talking.
So, naturally, he went with Option B.
Stan poked through Ford’s stuff, sifting through papers and devices he didn’t understand. Mostly science junk. He was just about to call it quits when Ford walked in.
“What are you doing?” Ford asked, already squinting like he expected trouble.
“Looking for you,” Stan lied smoothly. “Also—have you eaten lunch yet?”
“I have,” Ford said too quickly. “You don’t need to make anything for me.”
Stanley didn’t believe him for a second. But he didn’t push—yet.
For the next week, he made damn sure they at least ate dinner together. No skipping. No “later”s. He kept an eye on Ford—on the way he flinched at certain foods, the way he sometimes stared at his plate like it was a puzzle, how he barely spoke when he was tired. He was touchier, too. More silent. Off.
He seemed unsure of himself. Clumsier, with his lips pursed like they were about to start quivering, and his eyes wide, like he was about to be hit.
It reminded Stan of something, but he didn’t have a word for it. But now that he was looking for it, it was like Ford was slipping backward, folding in on himself.
~~~~~
When Stanley finally confronted him, Ford froze.
There was a second of silence. Then panic bloomed behind his eyes. His breathing went shallow. Stan caught him before he could bolt, guiding them both to his bed.
By the time Ford had calmed down, he was curled against Stanley, head tucked under his chin like he was trying to disappear.
“I don’t know why it happens,” Ford whispered. “Sometimes eating just... it’s too much. The textures, or the sound, or I can’t get my hands to work right. I think too much. It makes me sick just thinking about it. It’s always been like this.”
Stan’s stomach dropped. Always?
He was horrified. Since they were kids?
And Ford had just been dealing with it—alone.
Stan pressed his hand to Ford’s back, protective instincts kicking into overdrive. He’d be damned if he let this keep happening. Ford had been helping him through his crap, but he was going to stay silent about his?
Ford wasn’t going to starve himself out of habit. Not on his watch.
Later, when Ford had dozed off in the quiet, Stan slipped out of the room. Ford whimpered in protest. Stan rushed back in.
“Just grabbing something,” he whispered.
He returned a minute later with a small plate—cut cheese, slices of meat, round crackers. Simple stuff.
Ford turned away on instinct.
“Nope,” Stan said, dragging him gently into his lap and keeping an arm around his waist. “You’re staying right here.”
He fed him in small bites, giving him time between each. No pressure. Just quiet. Until Ford stopped resisting, until his breathing evened out and his head rested in the crook of Stan’s shoulder, utterly spent.
Stan kissed the top of his head.
“We’re gonna figure this out, Sixer. Together.”